


Pas de trois (Choréo. Baranovskaya)

by ineptshieldmaid



Series: The Patron Saint of Communicating Like A Fucking Adult [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Multi, Polyamory, poly problems, poly problems not about sexual jealousy per se, small exercises of gratuitous switzerland localisation, surprisingly less angst than expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10687959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: ‘You slept with Lilia Baranovskaya.’Chris turns, surprised. Théo has stopped, halfway through the door of Chris’ apartment, and is staring at him. He has that funny closed-off look on his face again.‘I did, yes,’ Chris says, the back of his neck prickling. They don’t... He’s never had a permission-seeking arrangement with Théo, but he suddenly feels like he should have, this time.





	Pas de trois (Choréo. Baranovskaya)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic reuses some dialogue / concepts from this [short sketch I did as a tumblr prompt a few weeks ago.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10600032)
> 
> Note re: series order - I'm treating Things Done On Purpose / House of Broken Bones / Fidelitas Amicorum as a trilogy, and then the rest I'm rearranging in whatever I think might make the best reading order. This is neither publication order nor story-chronology order. Chronologically, this instalment comes right after Things Done on Purpose (ie, starts with the GPF in Barcelona).
> 
> Many <3 to saraaah for SPaG checking!

Chris has not met Lilia Baranovskaya, but he knows who she _is_. Of course he does: he was friends with Viktor when she was choreographing for him. And through her and Yakov’s long-drawn out, on-again-off-again breakup. Between all the sore points in Chris’ relationship with Viktor, bitching about Viktor’s coach’s marital status and its impact on training has always been fairly safe territory.

If asked, Chris would have said that of course Théo knew both who Baranovskaya was (obviously: the man _had_ been a danseur) and that she’d be in Barcelona. And he would have wondered why you were asking, or what you expected the problem to be.

The problem shows up after the short programs. Plisetsky is riding high - deservedly, the kid’s a phenomenon unto himself. Feltsman is with him, simultaneously gloating and sheltering him from the media. Viktor and Katsuki have disappeared, presumably to lick either their respectively wounded egos or each other (Chris hopes each other. Best way to avoid an ego-crisis, really). JJ is probably actually melting down somewhere. Chris and Théo have half-formed ideas involving Chulanont: finding him, flirting a bit, sewing seeds due to flower after the competition is over.

But on their way out of the competitor’s area, they’re stopped by a tall, angular woman with cheekbones like blades and a voice like cut glass.

‘Giacometti,’ she says. Chris, whose attention is normally pretty easily swallowed up by women who look like they’d be equally happy to crush him underfoot or eat him alive, does notice that Théo goes very still beside him.

‘Madame Baranovskaya,’ Chris says, electing not to look over at Théo and draw attention to whatever’s going on with him. There’s an odd silence, and, for the sake of filling it, Chris says, ‘You must be proud of Plisetsky.’

‘Of course,’ she says, serenely. ‘But tomorrow will be better. Viktor is good, but I choreographed for him when he was merely in Juniors; I have done better for Plisetsky.’

Is Chris supposed to defend his friend’s honour, here? He’s not that stupid.

‘Your style,’ Baranovskaya says, ‘is very striking, Giacometti. I would like to know what your dance background is.’

Chris wonders if she really doesn’t know - certainly when she was choreographing for Viktor, he has no doubt she scoped out all the serious competition. But Chris wasn’t in Viktor’s league then, and if Viktor isn’t talking to Feltsman, perhaps the indomitable Russian clique haven’t got access to inside dirt on Chris.

He shrugs. ‘Ballet, like most of us. Some modern dance.’ He can’t actually avoid introducing Théo; it’d be weird and rude. ‘This is Théo - Théodore Viret, my choreographer.’

‘The pole dancer,’ Baranovskaya says, eyes sharp. Chris has a feeling this is what the conversation has actually been about. She doesn’t make any move to shake Théo’s hand; but then, she hasn’t shaken Chris’, either.

Chris does sneak a sidelong glance at Théo at this point. His expression is all… wrong, although it’s hard to say how. Théo doesn’t normally match Chris for exuberance, but he’s an open sort of person. The carefully controlled expression on his face right now: perfectly polite, neither awed nor intimidated, looks more like Viktor than Chris is really prepared for. 

Chris does the only thing that seems feasible, in this bizarre situation. It’s also the course of action Viktor would take (or would have, a season ago; who knows what Viktor would do now?), and that knowledge prickles up the back of Chris’ neck. He puts on his most winning smile, and talks Théo up.

‘Théo’s diverse dance background has been a real advantage in choréographing for this season,’ he enthuses, and starts in on a short précis of Théo’s CV. Ballet, ballroom, and swing; his current teaching work; the Béjart.

‘Ah, Maurice,’ Baranovskaya says. ‘Such a sad loss to the world of dance. You knew him, of course?’

‘Not well,’ Théo says, stiffly. ‘Gil Roman had assumed direction by the time I joined the Béjart.’ Chris, scraping his memory for what little he knows of ballet politics, is fairly sure that, unless Théo looks a decade older than he is, Baranovskaya could have guessed that.

Baranovskaya purses her lips, but goes on to ask, ‘And how is Gil these days?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Théo says. ‘I haven’t seen him since I left the company.’

‘Ah.’ Baranovskaya nods, and then seems to dismiss the topic. She keeps her sharp gaze on Théo, though. ‘I have seen footage from last year,’ she says. ‘I imagine you were the source of that pole?’

‘No,’ Théo says, and something resembling a genuine smile works its way out onto his face. ‘That was all Chris’ doing.’

‘Have you brought it this year?’ Baranovskaya asks, turning to Chris.

‘No.’ 

‘Pity,’ Baranovskaya says. And then, of all things, she _winks_ at him. ‘I shall have to content myself with observing your skating, then.’ And she turns on her heel and stalks off.

‘What,’ Chris asks, staring after her, ‘the hell was that about?’

‘I,’ Théo says, and stops. Starts again. ‘I don’t know.’

Chris turns to him, and the strange controlled expression is still on his face. ‘Hey,’ Chris says, quiet. ‘Are you… alright?’

‘Of course,’ Théo says, but it’s brittle. Chris mentally scraps ‘find Chulanont and flirt with him’ from his plan for the evening. That can wait until tomorrow, or the gala.

* * *

‘Young man.’ Chris looks up from his phone - he’s texting Théo, providing him with choice updates on the circus that is Viktor’s flamboyant comeback. The fact of finally, _finally_ having placed ahead of Viktor Nikiforov in an international competition is bittersweet, to Chris. And, predictably, the status of mere bronze medalist doesn’t keep Viktor from being the centre of attention at the Stockholm banquet. Currently, he and Katsuki are drinking champagne out of each other’s glasses, like a wedding toast, except, as far as Chris knows, they are still in their weird contingently-engaged limbo of ‘when Yuri wins a gold medal’.

‘Giacometti.’ 

Chris realises he’s looked up, but utterly failed to pay attention to the person in front of him. Who is, in fact, Lilia Baranovskaya. She’s wearing silk trousers and a fur stole; she has her hair braided around her head in a way that, on anyone else, would look like a poor imitation of Princess Leia. And she’s staring him down.

‘Madame Baranovskaya,’ Chris says. 

‘You will dance with me,’ Baranovskaya says, and holds out a hand. Chris, who certainly doesn’t have it in him to say no to a woman like this, extends his arm, and she rests her hand on it. It’s all very nice and formal, except she digs her fingernails into his forearm, sharp enough to feel through the sleeve of his coat.

Chris lets himself be pulled out onto the dancefloor, and into what turns out to be a tango. A very aggressive tango; far more controlled than the one Katsuki had danced in Sochi, but, in Chris’ estimation, every bit as attractive. More so, if you take into account the fact that, unlike Katsuki, Baranovskaya is stone cold sober and a paragon of iron control. Chris is kind of terrified of her, and Chris is very very into that.

Subsequently, he lets himself be pulled into an elevator and pushed into bed. There’s not actually any discussion between them, which isn't ideal. It's usually considered wise, before fucking, to check things like ‘are there any vengeful husbands I should be aware of’ and ‘what’s your preferred system of safewords’. In the case of Lilia Baranovskaya, however, Chris decides that if Yakov turns vengeful, Yakov’s person will be at far greater risk than Chris’; and as for the safewords, well. They’re not doing anything that puts him at risk of major physical damage, and, what with the lack of talking, it’s not as if she’s likely to flay Chris’ ego beyond what he can stand. He rolls with it, with all the confidence of a man who has not yet met a disaster he can’t bounce back from.

Baranovskaya pins him to the bed, rolls a condom onto him one-handed, and rides him through several successive orgasms. His: after the first she pauses, balanced on her knees, and raises one eyebrow down at him. Not exactly mocking: more expectant. Chris could take mocking, but it’s nice to see she knows the difference between pre-negotiated mockery and unnecessary meanness. In return, he does his best to exceed expectations.

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ he says, rocking up into her a little. Her muscles flutter around him, and it shows in a flicker of pleasure across her face. She’s let his hands come free at some point, and he runs them up her thighs. She’s wiry, all dense muscle and contained strength.

‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ Baranovskaya says. ‘Except to dispose of the condom.’ She swings off him and does just that, with brisk efficiency, and produces another from somewhere. ‘How much time do you need?’ She wraps a hand around him: he’s sensitive to the touch, but still hard.

‘Try me,’ Chris says, shifting in her grasp. Her fingers tighten, and she leans down to kiss him, thoroughly and without mercy.

Afterwards, when she’s satisfied and Chris is utterly fucked-out, Baranovskaya puts herself back together impeccably, and kisses him on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ she says. She produces a card from her kid-leather purse, and hands it to him. It has what appears to be her contact details on it. ‘I’d like to meet your choreographer properly one day,’ she says, and lets herself out of the room.

* * *

‘You slept with Lilia Baranovskaya.’

Chris turns, surprised. Théo has stopped, halfway through the door of Chris’ apartment, and is staring at him. He has that funny closed-off look on his face again.

‘I did, yes,’ Chris says, the back of his neck prickling. They don’t... He’s never had a permission-seeking arrangement with Théo, but he suddenly feels like he should have, this time. 

‘Are you going to come inside?’ he asks, instead of either apologising or challenging. Théo comes in, but when Chris goes to drop his luggage in his bedroom, Théo doesn’t follow him. Chris finds him in the kitchen, making tea, and he already seems much more relaxed. He curls one hand around the back of Chris’ neck and pulls him in, kissing him sweetly. 

‘What was she like?’ Théo asks, passing Chris a mug.

Chris waggles his eyebrows. ‘Are you asking me to kiss and tell?’

‘You usually do,’ Théo counters.

‘She was… intimidating,’ Chris says. ‘Very clear about what she wants. Dances tango better that Katsuki.’

Théo, who has seen pictures from the Sochi banquet, flickers a smile at that. They drink tea in comfortable silence, until Théo says, 

‘You haven’t shown me.’

‘What?’ Chris asks. ‘I don’t have photo footage of Lilia Baranovskaya!’

Théo just raises his eyebrows. ‘I meant your medal.’ 

Chris goes into his room and comes back out with it in one palm. He holds it out, silently, to Théo. They don’t really have a protocol for this: none of his other medals this season have warranted more than congratulations and a kiss. That’s fine by Chris: unlike _some people_ , he doesn’t feel the need to get his athletic performance all tied up in his sex life. Still. This is a gold, won over both Viktor and Plisetsky.

‘Thank you,’ Chris says, as Théo takes it out of his hands. ‘Your choreography did this.’

‘You could’ve won with another choreographer,’ Théo says. He flashes Chris a smile. ‘You could choreograph for yourself.’

‘But I didn’t,’ Chris says. ‘This is… you gave me this season.’ It’s not quite what he means. Théo gave him the pattern for this season, more like, and Chris stitched it into shape. 

Théo looks at him like he knows perfectly well how poorly the metaphor fits. Of course he does. He knows it’s not him who’s been on the ice with Chris morning after morning, for a start: that’s Valentin. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say Valentine did the stitching, and Chris is merely the fabric the two of them have worked on.

That’s not accurate, either, but Chris kind of likes it.

Théo puts the medal down on the table, and leans back in his chair, spreading his legs a little wider. ‘How were you planning on thanking me?’ he asks.

Chris leans back against the wall, ankles crossed, and smirks at him. ‘Maybe I’ll let you fuck me,’ he says. He gets one raised eyebrow from Théo.

‘That sounds more like a reward for you than for me,’ Théo points out. And just like that, as easy as it’s ever been, they’re off.

Later, when Chris is suitably bruised up (and, yes, thoroughly fucked, as he never really can afford to be in the lead-up to major competitions), they end up in the kitchen. Théo makes coffee, the thick kind you get in Greek and Turkish restaurants.

‘Did you…’ Théo starts to ask, and then stops. ‘What did you do? With her?’ He doesn’t quite look at Chris when he asks it.

Chris considers, for a moment, not answering, or demanding to know why the hell Théo needs a blow-by-blow account. It’s not that he minds telling: it’s that this time, Théo minds hearing. And he’s pretending he doesn’t.

‘Danced,’ Chris says. ‘Fucked. She rode me and sat on my face. It was pretty awesome.’

‘Cool.’ Théo says that a little flatly.

‘Nothing…’ Chris tries to figure out what the boundary was, exactly. Not _nothing kinky_ , because he prides himself on the fact that he, Christophe Giacometti, can make anything kinky if he does it right. ‘Nothing that called for safewords,’ he says.

‘How much sass did you give her?’ Théo asks. He pours the coffee into demi-tasses (he bought them, not long ago, along with the copper pot, and installed them in Chris’ kitchen without consultation).

‘None,’ Chris says, taking his cup. Théo gives him a Look. ‘None! Do I look like the kind of man who’d sass Lilia Baranovskaya?’

‘Yes,’ Théo says. ‘You do.’

‘Well, not this time.’ Chris realises, too late, that he hasn’t told Théo about the card. Or the implication Lilia made when she left him. He gets up; lets Théo’s eyes follow him across the room while he hunts for his wallet. He pulls out the card, and lays it on the table.

‘She said,’ Chris says, voice carefully neutral, ‘ _I’d like to meet your choreographer properly one day_.’ There’s a moment, while Théo looks at the card, and then Chris says, ‘I didn’t give her my card.’

‘You don’t have a card,’ Théo says.

‘I didn’t give her my number. Or my email.’ Chris thinks about that for a second. ‘She didn’t stick around to ask for them. I haven’t contacted her.’

‘Do you want to?’ Théo’s eyes flicker up to him

Chris thinks about that for half a second. ‘She can figure out how to find me,’ he says. ‘If that’s really something she wants.’

Théo turns the card over. Baranovskaya’s name is on the other side, stylised in silver, in two alphabets.

‘I didn’t,’ he says. Pauses. ‘I didn’t realise, when I started working with you. Or I knew, but I didn’t expect...’

‘Realise what?’ Chris asks. If the answer is _I didn’t realise you were quite this easy, for anyone,_ Chris may have to punch him. Not because he objects to the assessment: he _is_ easy, and it’s worked out great for him. But if it’s taken Chris sleeping with a middle-aged-to-old ballerina for Théo to realise that, well. He’ll deserve the punching.

‘I was supposed to be done with ballet,’ Théo says. ‘And ballet… personalities.’

Ah. Chris slides into the seat next to him. ‘You knew, though. You knew plenty of skaters work with dancers.’

‘I did,’ Théo says. ‘I just… hadn’t planned for this. Lilia Baranovskaya knows who I am.’

Chris reaches out and takes his hand. That could be a good thing: oh my goodness, Lilia Baranovskaya knows who I _am_. Maybe.

‘The pole dancer,’ Théo says. 

‘My choreographer,’ Chris corrects. ‘Ballet, ballroom, and swing. And, yes, pole dance.’ Théo gives him a flicker of a smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ Chris says. ‘That it’s the last bit everyone remembers.’ He’d compensated, when they met Lilia at the GPF; but it hadn’t actually seemed to make Théo feel any better.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then Théo says, ‘I’m not.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sorry,’ Théo says. He closes his eyes for a second. ‘It might be easier if that was all anyone knew.’ Another pause, then he smiles. It’s not even particularly forced. ‘Théo Viret, pole dancer, rubbing shoulders with the big names of ballet and skating.’

‘Is that how you want me to introduce you?’ Chris asks. It’s not as if anyone who actually sees him skate would miss that his choreographer has a diverse dance background. But if Théo wants to blur out the ballet parts of his CV, well. It’s a doomed effort, but Chris can get behind it.

* * *

Chris is not expecting to see Baranovskaya at Worlds: one thing that had been mentioned, in what little passed for conversation between them, was that her deal with Yakov vis-a-vis Plisetsky had come to an end after the Grand Prix. That she had been in Stockholm at all was, she claimed, a whim she’d followed up on since it was so close to home. Chris, who did not believe Lilia Baranovskaya would know a whim if it hit her in the face, took this as a sign she actually liked Plisetsky.

Chris is also not expecting to see, or hear from, Baranovskaya on a perfectly normal weekend in early March. 

He hears from Viktor first, in point of fact.

Viktor, 14.35: FYI, Yuri (my Yuri, not the other one) gave Lilia your number. He’s scared of her.  
14.37: Perfectly reasonable response.  
Viktor, 14.39: Why does Yakov’s ex-wife want your number, Chris? What have you done?  
14.40: You don’t want to know.  
Vitkor, 14.42: Well now I do.  
14.45: She wants to talk to Théo about pole dancing, apparently.

This, Chris thinks, having sent the message, is not untrue. It’s obviously not the entire truth, but he doesn’t give Viktor real-time updates on his sex and/or love life. They gossip, of course they do. Chris loves to gossip, and Viktor, in the past few years, has come to regard Chris’ sex life in the light that normal people regard elite sports: fascinating to hear about, not something to participate in. So Chris gives him the sanitised version, like he gives casual acquaintances the sanitised version of his career. Spectacular highlights, notable pratfalls, particularly amusing personalities; not so much of the bits that are patience more than exhilaration, or the problems that are all in your head and just have to be waited out. 

Chris has no trouble talking about his failures (skating-wise, or sex-wise, as long as the latter doesn’t mean breaching someone’s confidence), but some things it’s better not to talk about until he knows if they’re going to fail in the first place.

Late Saturday afternoon, Chris is fooling around Théo’s studio after class. He still goes to class - aside from being good practice, he genuinely likes Théo’s advanced pole group. It’s nice having friends, or at least friendly-people, who are neither skaters nor members of the delightful but faintly incestuous web of lovers and exes and someones-with-benefits he and Théo move in. Théo’s talking to one of the stragglers from class, and Chris is dangling from a pole in a closed inside-leg hang, just because he can.

Chris’ phone rings; he falls out of his position in surprise, but catches himself in what’s almost an elegant save. Because Viktor warned him, he’s not completely shocked to see a +7 number, but he is shocked when what Baranovskaya says is,

‘Giacometti. Are you and your young man free this evening?’

‘Uh,’ Chris says. ‘Why?’

‘If you are, I’m taking you to dinner.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I believe it calls itself the Beau-Rivage,’ Baranovskaya says, sounding dismissive. ‘The view is adequate.’

‘I know the one,’ Chris says, brain still scrambling to catch up. ‘Madame Baranovskaya, I’m flattered,’ he says, deciding to leave aside the question of _why_ she’s in Switzerland at all, let alone in a hotel in Ouchy. ‘I’ll need to check with Théo, though,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure what we have planned.’

This is a lie: he and Théo do not in fact have plans tonight. Sometimes they go back to Chris’ place after class and have fantastic sex, or sometimes they meet up later and go clubbing. It’s not consistent, though: sometimes one of other of them will have plans with other people. What they have is a pretty flexible sort of arrangement.

‘Lilia, please,’ Baranovskaya says, on the other end of the phone.

‘Pardon?’

‘Lilia,’ she repeats. ‘I would like you to call me Lilia.’

‘Then you should probably call me Chris,’ Chris says, smiling a little. ‘Not Giacometti.’

‘I like Christophe better,’ Lilia says. ‘That is your name, is it not?’

‘It is,’ Chris concedes. ‘Can I call you back after I’ve spoken to Théo?’

Théo, when Chris hangs up, is watching him with raised eyebrows. The last straggler from class has gone.

‘Do you want to go?’ Théo asks, after Chris explains.

Chris thinks for a second. ‘Yes,’ he says. He doesn’t know what Lilia has in mind for the evening, but just taking her words at face value, the dinner is liable to be spectacular. ‘And I’d like it if you joined me. But,’ he goes on, feeling his way through the consequences, ‘not if you’re uncomfortable, and…’ Here he pauses, because this is the kind of concession he doesn’t make often, not even to Théo. ‘If you’d rather I didn’t sleep with her, I won’t. But you should say so now, so _I_ can tell her before we get to the dinner part.’ If he’s got a definite no, he’d rather give it up front than have to side-step his way out of a situation later.

Théo squeezes his hand, like he noticed the significance of the last part. ‘I’ll come,’ he says.

* * *

Lilia is waiting for them in the hotel bar, already armed with a martini. She kisses Chris on the cheek, and shakes Théo’s hand.

‘Théodore, wasn’t it?’ she asks, and Chris resigns himself to both of them being given the full-first-name treatment all evening.

‘The pole dancer,’ Théo says. He’s not even sarcastic about it: he smirks a little, evidently pleased with the self-description.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Lilia says. ‘You seem to have taught Christophe well,’ she adds, and doesn’t bother pretending she’s not checking Chris out as she says it. Chris turns a little to the side, to give her quarter-profile view of his ass, because he’s generous like that.

‘Oh,’ Theo says, wrapping one arm around Chris’ waist in such a way that Chris knows the hem of his suit jacket will be riding up, showing off more of his ass as it does. ‘Technical skills, certainly. The exhibitionism is more of an innate talent with him.’ 

‘Excuse you,’ Chris says, ‘I work hard to be this exhibitionistic.’ Théo, who is really not one to talk when it comes to exhibitionism, shifts his stance a little, turning Chris’s ass even further in Lilia’s direction. So that’s a thing they’re doing this evening, then. 

‘I’m sure you do,’ Lilia says, indulgent. ‘Will you two sit down and let me buy you drinks?’ They sit, in low armchairs opposite her. ‘Are either of you driving?’ she asks, waving imperiously for a waiter.

‘No,’ Théo says.

‘Neither of us own a car,’ Chris adds. It’s not a pertinent point, really, but part of him wants to remind her who she’s dealing with: relatively normal people, who catch public transport and don’t habitually eat at two-star Michelin restaurants.

‘I have spent all day looking at cars,’ Lilia says, with a delicate shudder. ‘I think you might be wiser than I.’ That answers the question of what she’s doing in Switzerland, at least: the motor show. What she’s doing in Lausanne, Chris concludes, is him. Or them. 

When their drinks arrive - Lilia ordered martinis all round, to which neither Théo nor Chris had any complaints - Lilia turns to Théo and says, briskly,

‘So, tell me about your teaching work.’

Théo holds up remarkably well under the anxiety of being quizzed by someone who teaches for the Vaganova about his suburban dance school. He explains that his partner teaches ballet and tap for children, while he teaches ballroom, salsa, pole and - because it’s in hot demand right now - Zumba.

‘You haven’t given me the talk about pole fitness being a respectable sport,’ Lilia says.

Théo shrugs. ‘I only give that talk to the parents of teenagers,’ he says. ‘And women who really, really need reassurance that what they’re doing is okay.’ Lilia’s mouth twitches, and Théo adds, ‘You don’t seem like that kind of person.’

‘I endeavour not to be,’ Lilia says, utterly composed.

‘Besides,’ Théo says, ‘this _is_ an art form developed by sex workers.’ He leans a little closer to Chris, and settles a proprietary hand on Chris’ thigh. ‘And for what Chris needs from me, that’s actually pretty important.’

‘Mmm, yes,’ Lilia says, looking Chris over. ‘Respectability wouldn’t suit him at all.’

Chris shifts in his seat, sliding forward so that Théo’s hand is practically over his crotch. ‘I tried respectability once,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t fun.’

‘I imagine,’ Lilia says, looking at the pair of them over the rim of her martini, ‘that he gives you quite a lot of trouble, does he not, Théodore?’

‘Mmm,’ Théo says, thumb rubbing Chris’ thigh through his pants. ‘When I’ve had enough I let him go and make trouble for other people.’

‘Christophe,’ Lilia says, ‘should I be offended? You did not give me any trouble at all.’

The truth of the matter is that the better he knows someone, the less compliant Chris is with them. It’s a trust thing: some people need an established rapport before they submit; Chris only lets himself fight back if he knows he’s dealing with someone who can match him.

Théo and Lilia between them can more than outmatch him, and Chris is very, very fine with that.

‘Did you want him to give you trouble?’ Théo asks, hand still on Chris’ thigh. ‘Because that can be arranged.’

‘What’s in this for me?’ Chris asks, turning up the sass. He slouches in his chair, just to see which of them will react first.

It’s Théo. ‘Sit up properly and you might find out,’ he says.

‘And if I don’t?’

Lilia seems to have caught on. ‘I’m sure Théodore and I can find some way to amuse ourselves,’ she says, casting a conspiratorial look over at Théo. ‘Such an accomplished young man,’ she adds. Théo, and this is actually a first in Chris’ experience, blushes. Chris sits up properly, and drains the rest of his cocktail.

‘Madame Baranovskaya-’ Théo begins, and is cut off by Lilia, telling him to use her given name. ‘Lilia,’ he corrects. ‘We should… talk about this. Out of character, so to speak.’ And this is one of the reasons Chris likes Théo so much: where Chris hurls himself into situations and talks about them at the last minute, when everyone’s investment has become obvious, Théo prefers to have all his cards on the table as early as possible.

Lilia gives him an arch look. ‘Dear boy, I am always in character.’ Then, before Théo can protest, she smiles. ‘But yes, we will talk. We will talk _after_ dinner. This,’ she waves her hand in Chris’ general direction, ‘is entertainment enough in its own right, is it not? Christophe does not seem to be unable to voice objections at this stage, should he have any.’

‘Believe me,’ Chris says, ‘I’m not objecting to any of this.’

‘You’re always objecting to something,’ Théo counters.

‘Only to give you more incentive to shut me up.’ Chris smiles sweetly. Théo gets that look on his face, the one that says he’s not sure if he’d rather slap Chris or kiss him. Chris loves that look. Before Théo can decide if either of these actions are appropriate for the venue, Lilia sets her glass aside and stands up. She cups Chris’ jaw in one hand: gentle, but firm. 

‘Keep a civil tongue in your mouth through dinner,’ she says, ‘and you can be objectionable all you like later.’ She turns to Théo. ‘Coming, Théodore? I believe our table is ready.’

**Author's Note:**

> Ed 28.4.17 - I remembered we do actually have a shot of Chris' coach, and he's a balding dude. Changed a name accordingly.
> 
> Folks, see the polyamory tag? Be nice. I <3 comments, I do not <3 surprise attacks of slut-shaming directed toward fictional characters. 
> 
> In addition, while I try to tag comprehensively I am not a mind-reader or a wizard. There is always a chance I have failed to forsee your particular squick or trigger. That's a risk you have to take. If I have and you tell me I can probably tag it for the sake of future readers, but please endeavour to be halfway polite about it.


End file.
